Myra I

Myra cradled her wrist and traced a thumb over the scar. The wound had long since healed, but the ache lingered when she pressed it. She closed her eyes as the salt wind brushed against her cheek.

When she opened them, her gaze fell to the harbor below. "Trust to yourself, Rowena," she breathed. The girl could not fail her.

Myra drew her sleeve over the pale flesh and let the lively chaos of the Klerenmark swallow her. Market stalls snapped in the ocean breeze, their striped canopies mottled in red, green and yellow. Scents clashed in the air—heady spices from Zenyth, bread warm from the oven, the stink of the day's catch.

At the market's heart stood the Pavilion, a forest of wooden columns crowned by a royal blue canopy, embroidered with golden waves. Merchants within tended to displays of fine wool from the golden glades or enameled brooches from the east. The harbor lay but a bowshot off, yet still the Pavilion kept no tally of fish in her collection. Nothing so common or needful as that. She was the pride of the Klerenmark, reserved only for the finest wares from the across the sea. A cruel jest, thought Myra as the heat rose in her cheeks. What use is a bolt of cloth to an empty stomach? She tore her eyes from the tent and pressed on.

Hunger was never far now, even by the measure of life beneath the city. The days had passed slow and cruel since her father took his vessel, the Iron Ram, to resupply the Willowfort. The whole of her people felt the ship's absence—without her plunder, their stores held more dust than grain. It was ever an impossible choice; fortify Dun Moeras against the Crown's coming storm, or fill the mouths that cried out for bread.

This wasn't the first time the Captain had left Myra to hold their seat. But never had the burden hung so heavy, like a stone lashed about her neck. Pleading eyes looked to her in silent accusation, and her plan was but a frail hope. It mattered not; they were all of them out of recourse.

She wove her way to the trough at market's edge and knelt to throw trimmings to one of the butcher's pigs. The low grunts of the animal calmed her, even as her heartbeat grew loud in her ears. Beneath her hood, she kept a wary eye on the harbor below, searching for Rowena’s signal with a watchman's vigilance.

She edged toward the porthouse with a glance over her shoulder. Stone-bricked and stout, the hall squatted on the hill over the harbor beneath its shadow. Myra peered through its latticed windows and glimpsed a figure hunched over his desk. The wharfinger. She could scarcely see him through the gap, but she had studied his dealings enough to know him well; a large, shrewd man with silver-rimmed lenses that perched low on a hooked nose.

The thick aroma of butter wafted from the open door beyond. Myra was lost in a daydream of honey cakes and sugared tarts when the cry of deckhands rose above the din of the market. Chaos had broken on the docks; a barrel of ale had snapped its bonds, crashing onto the pier in a spray of foam.

The wharfinger heaved himself upright and lumbered down the steep hill to the quays. Myra waited until he had shuffled out of sight, then a smile crept across her face. Well done girl, she thought as she slipped into the porthouse.

Atop the desk inside lay a silver plate laden with bread and pastries of all kinds. Her stomach twisted with hunger until it pained her. Temptation tugged at her resolve, but she remembered herself and shook her head. Myra scanned the parchment scattered about the table and found her mark buried under a letter to the quartermaster; the day's ledger, freshly delivered.

Her eyes roved the missive, until at last they alighted on the Golden Gull, a Tyrenean cog slated for midday. She plucked the wharfinger's quill from its well and scratched her note.

Carriage delayed—crew to be dismissed.

It was far from her best work, in truth. She had always hated being left-handed.

The tumult from the dock grew softer until it could scarcely be heard—it was time to leave. She turned for the way out, but her eyes snagged on the gleaming tray. Visions of the wharfinger's stuffed jowels bent her hunger into searing rage. Damn it all, she thought. Quick as an arrow, she snatched up the platter and crammed every pouch, pocket and fold of her garb. She slipped from the porthouse heavy with fury and swag.

No sooner had the frenzy of the market embraced her again than a tug at Myra's sleeve drew her attention. She turned to find the girl at her side, her orange hair draped like a curtain over half her face. Myra gave Rowena an approving once-over, but shifted her gaze to the market's throng of dark-haired heads; the girl's locks shone like a beacon in the sea. "We draw too much attention here."

"Nobody saw me," the girl assured. "I was in and out, just like you said."

Myra regarded her. "You did well."

Rowena gave a mocking curtsy. "M'lady."

"I've told you before I mislike that," Myra snapped. She smoothed out Rowena's cloak, rested her hands on her shoulders, met her sight. "So many watch for our return today. We cannot fail."

"It's not us you ought worry about." Rowena gave her a knowing look.

"They will do as they were told." Myra squeezed Rowena's shoulders. “And you, too.”

Rowena rolled her eyes, then said, "As you command, m'lady.” A reprimand rose to Myra's lips, but Rowena cut her short. "Is that what I think it is?" Her eyes bent on Myra's pockets, now grown wide with hunger.

Myra glanced at the passing crowd and forced a smile. "Yes, but not here. If they catch you, they'll mark you for a thief." Her eyes flicked to the scar on her wrist, and she pulled her hands back from Rowena's shoulders to draw her sleeve low. "Once we're free and clear of this place, I'll share," she said as she rose to her feet. "Go on—find an outlook until the cavalry arrives."

Rowena extended her arms in a dramatic curtsy, then made for the cobblestone steps that snaked down to the harbor. Myra smiled as she watched her and turned away from the hill. Her face was known to many, and she dared not linger on the quays with so many watchmen about.

More yet, a question burned in her mind—one that demanded counsel. The wharfinger’s ledger held no record of the galleys bound for the island, their return long overdue. Theirs, and her father's absence, cast a pall over her thoughts.

She made her way to Adriaan's stall, a stone's throw from the porthouse. The jewel master was a friend, and well-favored amongst the people. To pilfer from his tent was to place a target on one's back, though Dirk flanked him all the same. Myra marked the guard for a broodish man, clad in iron mail, leaned heavy on his halberd.

Behind the counter, Adriaan's sharp eyes peered through a brass-framed seeing lens. His skin was sunmarked and bronzed, and smoke was his hair. A sapphire turned beneath his lens; the rest of his treasures hid safely in oaken coffers beneath the bench.

"Adriaan," she said. "I'd hoped to ask after my emerald." That was the only way she dared style her father here, where ears were so many. "Has it come?"

"No gem today." The stonecutter's words fell curt, edged with a Zenite accent. His face was a mask of regret.

Her heart sank. If Adriaan had no word, then there was no word to be had. For a moment, silence stretched thin between them.

"My thanks, master." She pulled a spiced cake from her pocket and set it on the merchant's counter.

Before she could leave, Adriaan grabbed her forearm. "Patience, girl." The man's smile was bright as the sun, and as warm. "Amethysts abound in my coffer. They gleam, yes, but fetch a poor price in your market. I do not stake my trade on these. Rubies are my lifeblood. They are worth the risk on the road, worth more than all rest." He leaned closer and dipped his voice. "The emerald carries the highest price of all, and has pulled me from ruin more times than I care to count."

Myra returned his smile with her own, then left for market's edge. She licked the glaze from her fingers as she lingered by the low stone wall that flanked the steps. Below, porters swarmed the docks. Barrell and crate stacked high as the deckhands moved their loads onto the pier.

She marked a fluyt come laden with bog-oak from the mires beyond the dead forest. Later, a merchant sloop from the Khôld river, her deck heavy with raw iron. Scores of ships made berth, but none flew the Tyrenean crest. The shadows grew long arms as midday came and went.

At last, the Golden Gull slid into port.

And there came the wharfinger, parchment in hand, so broad and squat he seemed more toad than man. From her place atop the hill, she bent her eyes to watch him lock antlers with the captain of the Gull. The captain shook his head in protest of some command, but the warfinger jabbed a finger at the ledger. At length the captain slumped, and he signaled his crew to unload the produce onto the planks. When the crew made their end, the wharfinger pressed a purse into his palm, swollen with gold crowns. More than most scrape together in a lifetime, she reflected.

With a few shouts from the boatswain, the cog slithered away from the deck. With her, dozens of crewman who Myra no longer need worry about. She allowed herself a smile and glided down the twisting steps.

Soon after, an aging shire plodded across the wharf from the road to the city proper. Hitched to the horse was a wooden cart with a splintered frame. The wain's driver wore a gambeson and a tattered woolen cloak, hood drawn. A single guard followed closely behind—strands of pepper hair fell across his forehead beneath his helmet, and his ill-fitting plate clanked with every step.

As the shire's hooves clopped over the uneven cobbles onto the stone bricks of the dock, the wharfinger raised a hand to halt the driver. Myra could see him properly at last—swaddled in a velvet blue coat, a felt bonnet perched atop his melon head, pinned by a brass trident. He clutched the ledger as a child clutches a favorite toy. With her hood drawn low, she feigned interest in a row of fisher's nets to better hear the exchange.

"You're late," said the wharfinger. "What is the cause for delay?"

"Tried to send word ahead," replied the driver, his voice affectedly low. He shifted his weight in his seat. "Ran into trouble on the road."

"Trouble on the road," the wharfinger echoed. "What sort of trouble, exactly?"

"Bloodbrands, they're calling themselves."

"Ah, the rabble. The industrious sort—I somewhat admire them! Still, they take their toll on my labors. The King will route them soon enough."

"Mayhap. Word is they're a cunning lot."

"Mm," mused the wharfinger with waning interest. He turned to face the deckhands. "You there! Get these crates loaded!" he barked with a snap of his fingers.

The laborers heaved cargo onto cart while the wharfinger scribbled away. "There—it’s done. Now be quick about it! Regain the time we’ve lost here—I won't have it said that Master Hendrik is a man of poor punctuality. What was your name again?”

The driver stammered. Myra's breath hitched, and her hand shot to the dirk sheathed in her cross-strap.

"What's this?" said the guard behind them. "The Court meets in a fortnight—why have we delayed?"

"All right then, move on move on!" said the wharfinger with a wave of his hand.

Myra loosed a sharp breath. The driver nodded, and with a crack of the reins, the carriage started its journey toward the steep hill to the Klerenmark. She slipped from her position among the fishermen to follow. The nag strained against the weight of the groaning cart, but at last all made it to the crest of the hill.

In the square, Myra's shadow walked beside her in the shape of a girl; Rowena appeared silent and sudden. They assumed the guise of mother and daughter as they led on, near enough to the cart to steer the driver toward the city's northernmost gate. Nearly there, she thought. We need only slip past the watchmen, and hungry bellies will want for nothing. The Captain's Daughter keeps her promises.

The rattle of Thorne's stolen steel split her musings like an axe to wood. He clattered behind the cart with every step, and the sound was as a chain dragged across stone. It sent a shiver up her back as the ghost of an old pain flared in her wrist. Myra decided she had heard enough of iron links.

Finnec began to hum as he held the reins, a lilting melody that floated over the clamor like a feather. She found comfort in it, even if his heedlessness was ill-timed.

"Stop that," came Thorne's sharp command from behind the cart. The humming ceased, somewhat to her displeasure; silence was an unwelcome substitue. Around them, trees and tents thinned out, and soldiers dwindled until they were no more.

The company reached the Veiled Gate to find it unguarded. Home lay beyond, and the old graveyard besides. The northern arch was near to disrepair, long surrendered to the decay of time. The baron-lords spare no thought for the dead, Myra thought as the cobbles yielded to a hard-packed road. Nor we who haunt the earth beneath their feet.

The four companions passed through a valley, embraced on all sides by peaks that rose high above. In its twilight, the barrow-mounds took shape. Myra's gaze lingered on the little hills. How many nobles lay buried here? she wondered. How many of us? The city had exiled its dead beneath the shadow of the mountain. It felt, even to her, a cruel fate that the memory of all those who lay here had been buried with them.

When she was sure they were alone, she stopped. "Here's far enough. What have we to show for our trouble?"

The driver pulled back his hood to release a tumble of golden hair. Finnec's face was sharp with high cheekbones; it teetered on the edge of handsome, but never quite crossed it. Still, his crooked smile carried a certain charm, the kind that served him well among whichever maiden held his heart at present.

The boy turned in his seat to look at their laden cart. Laden was a kindness—the haul was thin. "I thought we'd be running empty-handed. This lot should fill my fists up nice," he japed.

Thorne doffed his helmet and peered into the carriage. Wordless, he leaned back and let his hands rest on his pommel.

Rowena's disappointment was less restrained. "That's it? There's hardly anything here. How did we end up with so little?"

Myra stepped forward and placed a hand around her shoulder. "It's less than we hoped for. We'll make do with what we have." Her words fell assured, but the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her, she knew. "Let's get home."

The party left the road for the track of crushed rock that lay beyond. They soon arrived at the mountain's foot. To Myra's left, hidden beneath a growth of vines and tangled underbrush, lay the mouth to a cave at its flank. It was scarcely visible, concealed by nature’s hand.

A stone's toss from the cavern was another entrance—a tunnel obscured by a mesh of leaves and old fishing nets. The River Stille was too shallow for the crownships, and so the tunnel was abandoned. The twin caves had served them well, the Mountain's Maw and River's Reach.

Myra turned to Thorne and Finnec, her expression firm. “Take the cart and the cargo and start unloading in the tunnel,” she said.

“We’re not bringing these inside?” Thorne asked, a challenge in his tone as he cocked his head toward the loot in front of him.

Not if we’re to feed the Willowfort, she thought. “Eamon will return soon. He’ll decide the share.”

“How many ways can there be to share a fistfull of scraps?” Finnec said with a laugh.

Myra glared at him, and he relented. The two men moved to their task while she made for the cave entrance with Rowena. They passed through the wall of vines, and Myra reached for the torch set within the mouth. Rowena drew a tinderbox from her pocket, striking flint against steel, and Myra caught the flame. She raised the torch to spill warm light over the cavern's black throat. She glanced at her companion, who looked up at her with dark eyes.

"I could do with that sweet now," Rowena said. Myra smiled, turned out her pockets. They shared the cakes in silence, the last stolen breath before their descent into the dark.

The air grew cool as they ventured into the Ondergrund. Myra led the way through the narrow passages—moss and fungi clung to the walls about them, and the air smelled of moist soil. Their footsteps echoed as they delved deeper into the earth.

Small alcoves pocked the walls, filled with crude wooden shelves of balms and black bread. Beyond, broader chambers where groups of men, women and children huddled around the feeble breath of iron braziers. Their expressions softened upon seeing her, and Myra returned their looks of hope with her own.

Finally, the throat yawned, its narrow passage spilling into a great chamber, and from the darkness rose the hallowed seat of the Onderhall. Its walls soared upwards to meet in a domed ceiling that loomed over the hall like a starless sky. The amphitheater unfurled below it, carved a half-century past on the order of the late Queen Lenora. Row upon row of stone benches circled the central stage, where a fire pit burned with a steady glow. The queen was a woman of boundless apetite for life's indulgences; art, music, the histories. The hall was her secret, a vault for torrid revels beyond the Court's gaze. Would that any of us had time for such things now, thought Myra.

The pillars were the stonemasons' greatest feat. The columns were adorned with heavy crimson tapestries, their thick fabric sure to choke any sound that dared escape the chamber. Her father’s colors shown vividly against the darkness, as if set ablaze by the light. They would be hers, in time.

Myra shut her eyes and took a swallow of bracing air. “Call the marked,” she said.

Rowena knelt, and her fingers closed around a shard of obsidian, smooth and black as spilled ink. She tapped it against the wall in a steady rhythm, and each strike sent a ripple of sound that cut through the silence like a blade.

From the dimly lit passages, the Bloodbrands began to stir. They descended upon the Onderhall like a red sea. Her faithful were garbed in a patchwork of roughspun and frayed cloth, their tunics mottled with seams and stains. Little more than rags, in truth. As the bodies surged in, Myra began to count under her breath. There were fewer than a hundred pairs of eyes in the shadows of the firelight. She cursed, but gathered her courage for the faces that remained.

"Brothers and sisters of the blood", she declared. "I'll not mince words." Her voice echoed in the stillness to fill the dark corners of the hall. "Our burdens are many. The fortress demands much from us, and of late it feels as though there's too little to spare." She swallowed hard as bodies shuffled in the dark. What would Father say?

When next she spoke, the words came louder. "It's little solace, what we've won this day, but we've won it the same. We've stripped bare the Golden Gull, taken all for our stores. Her gifts lie just beyond these walls, fresh produce from the sunlit fields!" A wave of hushed voices washed through the crowd. Myra let a smile play on her lips.

The seamstress stepped forward. Lisbeth's face, weary like the others, managed a smile. Her voice was stately and distant, as though she addressed the Court rathern than her own kin. "Daughter of the Good Captain," she began, "our faith is rewarded. Your efforts are not unmarked, but my son has not eaten in a day and a night. Begging your pardon, but I must ask—how many days of mercy have you won us?” She wrung her hands.

From the darkness, Myra felt eyes on her. “Eamon will dole the crop,” she said, her tone careful. “We must be sparing with our resources, or we're not like to last the cold. We will trust his judgment, as we have ever done.” She nodded, hoping others would do the same, but murmurs of dissent rippled through the crowd. She needed her father's presence more than his name.

“What of Dun Moeras?” a man called out. “What news from the fortress?”

"The captain will return tonight,” she assured them. "With him, news of the Willowfort. We must be patient!”

"Indolence!" shouted a voice from the black.

Lisbeth spoke again. "My lady, we cannot do nothing until the larders are bare and death is at our doorstep."

She was losing them. Murmurs swelled, the voices restless. Just as she felt the crowd slip from her grasp, a steady tapping echoed once more through the Onderhall. Finnec appeared on the steps, each strike of his obsidian a welcome reprieve from the unrest. Thorne followed behind, his steps as heavy as iron.

"Clear the way!" shouted the boy. “Sea Goats returning!”

Myra felt a wave of relief wash over her, but the undertow brought a new feeling of unease at the return of her father.

The Captain and his Goats, a burly crew, descended on the amphitheater like heroes of the Old World. Even at seventy and one, the graying man led the company with poise, his silver head held high as he walked the steps. The jingle of jeweled bracelets announced his coming. Tonight, her father wore his fine silk doublet, jade in color and embroidered with golden threads.

The Goats followed in tow, burdened with the spoils that bowed their broad shoulders. Her spoils, she realized, but the thought brought no comfort. She knit her brow. In days past, most of the crop would never have reached the chambers of the Onderhall. "The fortress comes first," her father would say. Now, the Goats bore all.

They reached the pit and began to unload the bounty. Her father took his place beside her. In front of her, in truth. His shadow swallowed her own on the stone beneath them as he turned to face the sea. She felt small behind his back.

Eamon sniffed, and a smile played at his lips. “My faithful," he bellowed. "You hunger, you thirst!" He clicked his tongue and nodded assuredly, then gave a single shake of his head. "No longer. This eve, we want for nothing!” There came a roar of approval as the Onderhall erupted into celebration.

With his left hand on the sword at his side, the Bilgerat lifted his right, and a hush fell over the crowd. "Barend will help you. Form a line, and savor the spoils won by my daughter!" The Captain's first mate sat upon the shipment, his massive arms outstretched in welcome. It was a fine performance; the old queen would have been pleased.

As the current flowed in toward the pit, the Captain leaned in to whisper in her ear. "We need to talk." He peered down at her; his eyes were a storm.

She followed him to the alcove behind the amphitheater, enshrouded by heavy scarlet curtains. The scent of old paper and ink hung in the air, chased by the faint aroma of burning oil as her father lit the lantern inside. It revealed a dim office, anchored by a stone table braced by a high-backed chair of solid rock. Upon the bench sprawled a map of the Green Country, its edges curled and worn from use. Near it lay a set of compasses, a quill and inkwell, and scrolls bound in wax.

Eamon lowered himself into his grim throne with some effort; his hips had failed him in his old age. "Sit, daughter," he said, motioning to one of the wooden chairs opposite him.

The wood groaned beneath her as she obeyed. When at last the creaking stilled and she had settled as best she could, she could hold her tongue no longer. "What news of the fortress, my lord?"

"My lord," the Captain echoed. "None of that, my love. It's just us."

"Of course, Father."

"You did good work with the assembly. Even a trained dog is more wild animal than pet, once it's starving."

"That wild animal might've come to heel, had you not cut the legs of its mistress."

"It knows the hand what fed it."

"Does it?"

He stroked his beard a moment. "Stealing the carriage was a fine idea. Our people reap what you've sown. How did Thorne manage to take the armor? It's fine steel."

She loathed to admit it, but her father's admission swelled her with pride. "Thorne and Finnec played their parts well. I expect there's a soldier out there in naught but his braies, wandering the road. Still, the haul was smaller than I'd hoped."

"It'll do, for now. At first light, I'll send Barend and the Goats to retrieve the rest of the provisions we recovered on the Ram."

"Recovered? Father, enough riddles. Why have the crownships not returned from the island? And the galleys, as well. All were missing from that oaf's ledger in the porthouse."

The Captain's face was drawn. He sighed, then rose to retrieve a pitcher of darkwine from a shelf of stone. He poured deep into two tarnished silver chalices, then set himself before her and perched on the table's edge. "Drink," he said as he extended a cup.

"Father, what's happened?"

He pressed the chalice into her hands. "Drink."

She drank deep from her cup and wiped her chin as a sanguine drop fell to the floor.

Her father watched her. Only when she had drunk enough to satisfy him did he begin. "We found the fortress in ruin. Its walls broken to rubble, no more than rocks and stones strewn across the field. The Crown set the tents to flame." For a moment, it seemed as though the Good Captain's voice caught in his throat.

Myra ran her fingers over the arms of her chair, feeling out the splinters. "And the Brands stationed there?"

He gave a curt shake of his head.

"And the islefolk? What of the people of Willowdael?" Her fingers traced the grain of the wood.

"They razed the village to the ground, and salted the earth." He paused a moment and set his jaw. "The people of Willowdael are spent."

She studied him, unmoved. "What is to be our next course?"

The Captain knit his brow. "Did you hear me, daughter? It's gone. Someone betrayed our position at Dun Moeras."

She lowered her gaze, considering. "Sophine, Eamon. Was there any sign of her?"

The Good Captain ran a hand over his forehead. "My dear, sweet daughter. We did not find the girl's body."

She rose and paced the room while her father watched her. In her mind, she saw burning tents and crumbling towers, a village razed and sacked. None of it stirred her. Neither the ruin, nor the dead.

Then she saw Sophine's face, streaked with ash, and her steps faltered. She caught herself against the cold stone wall. "Steady," said her father as he rose and set his chalice aside. She pulled her hand away, frowning. Blood slicked her palm. She looked back at the chair, and found a red smear where her fingers had passed over the wood again and again. Her father's eyes softened, and he said, "I share in your grief, my love. I know the girl was precious to you."

How could you know? she thought. You who've never loved anything but the sea. "It's worse than that," she said, her voice steady again. "Sophine had the stone."